If Not Now, When?

Take Time to Thank the Joeys.

Yesterday morning, I read a tear-jerking, throat-lump-inducing post from Looky, Daddy!, about watching his daughter's face as she blissfully watched the fireworks on the 4th of July.  (As has been previously confessed, his is one of the few blogs I still follow on a regular basis).

Buried in the comments of that post was a "thank you" from a guy named Joey B. -- a guy who had apparently spent his day on the 4th laying cable and packing 3000 fireworks shells -- who felt blessed to know that his show had been enjoyed by and touched someone. 

It got me to thinking about the Joeys of the world.  The grease of our entertainment engines, the ones who work tirelessly (and more often than not crappy hours - nights, weekends, early mornings) behind the scenes keeping everything running...

And then, Man of Many Nicknames and I went last night to see Rosanne Cash at our local Jazz Club (upscale, not hole-in-the-wall).  Their intimate venue and cabaret seating is great, but the back row of tables has mostly-obstructed views.  To combat this, they have large flatscreen monitors and a static camera on the stage.  Before the performance (while you're dinnering), they show ads and upcoming concert promos on those screens.  As the opening act took the stage, the monitor facing our seats went black.

For 25 minutes or so, we sat tall and craned our necks in our cocktail table balcony seats to catch glimpses of the floating foreheads and eyeballs of the opening act musicians (who were great).   During the break, I started chatting with the couple from the next table as we stood and stretched against the wall:

Her:  "Can you see anything at all?"
Me:  "Nope, pretty much nothing."
Her:  "I don't understand it ... that screen was on before, playing ads, but now it's dark."
Me: "I know, it's crazy -- the one angled over there is on, showing the stage, so obviously they HAVE the technology..."

As my brain churned realizing that someone had turned that monitor OFF, I decided to go out on a limb.

I walked over to the guy tucked in the balcony corner, the one running "The Board".  "The Board" is a casual techy term for the command center for any given performance (I thank Mr. Moon from my High School Theatre Tech Squad for teaching me this).  They run audio, video, lighting from this central command post.   Any production of any merit at all -- even a local conference -- will likely have at least one guy there operating the systems (usually wearing black and looking somewhere on the midscale of alt-hip to slightly- to uber-geeky).

I spent a lot of years in professional event production (occasionally I still find myself in that role.)  I have an IMMENSE amount of respect and admiration for the skill and talent that it takes to run The Board and run it well.  These guys have more technical knowledge in their pinky finger than I have in my entire body, they strive for perfection, and they do not get flummoxed regardless of what happens. They are there hours before and hours after any given gig.  They have perfected whispers and hand gestures as forms of communication.  (In my experience, they also survive their challenging schedules on copious amounts of caffeine, cigarettes, and tequila in alternating doses.) 

So last night, I sidled up to Greg (the guy on The Board at the Dakota) and asked - on behalf of the Back Row -- why it might be that our viewing screen wasn't operating?   He looked up at it and said something along the lines of ...

"Well, it's probably for her comfort, she might be able to see it and it could be distracting."
... to which I replied...
"Oh, so I guess she's not bothered that WE can't see her either?"   (I laughed and tried to be jovial.)

You could tell he empathized.  He pulled out a remote control and aimed it at the screen, saying something along the lines of,  "well, let's give it a shot and see if anyone complains" (as she took the stage). 

And the screen flickered on:  Shazam. 

The Tech guys at the concert or conference.  The Pyrotechnic technicians at the 4th Fireworks show.  The Drivers on the Buses and Metro trains.  The guy who washes the dishes at your favorite pub.  The guy who keeps the wastebaskets and floors clean at your job, school, mall.  The person at the grill who makes your hash browns JUST PERFECTLY brown and crunchy, without fail, every time.  The woman who can make up 5 hotel room beds in an hour with crisp hospital corners. 

These are all, in and of themselves, arts.  They are not arts for which everyone is suited, nor traditional "arts" which everyone recognizes.  They are things we tend to notice only when they are NOT done well.  Otherwise, these arts are a part of the 'expected' package, and seem to be effortless.

Having been a behind-the-scenes person for years, I can tell you there is a TON of effort expended to make sure that your front-of-the-house experience is magical, or at the very least, goes off with as few hitches as possible.   Tens or Hundreds or Thousands of people spin madly and yet gracefully beneath the surface, behind the scenes, so that you can see and hear and relax and sip and enjoy and say ooooh,  aaaaaah.

We tip our bartenders and our servers.  We give kudos to the President or Honorary Volunteer Chairperson of the event that we attended.    But it's the Gregs and the Joeys (and Kevins and Chucks and Timmys and Michaels) of the world that are without question the glue that hold it all together, the lubrication that keeps the engine of our entertainment moving, the ones whose talents are ultimately the bedrock of some of the most memorable experiences of our lives -- the music, the meals, the rousing speeches, the fireworks. 

The couple at the table next to us at the show was a little in awe that I was able to get the screen turned on -- they mouthed a wide-eyed "Thank you!!!" as I went back to our table. In fact, I suspect they were more impressed with my asking than with Greg's willingness to actually make it happen - when in fact HE was the one they should have been awed by, that they should have been thanking: I was just a mouthy bystander willing to ask the right person (and it wasn't the sport-coated Manager.)

On our way out of the show last night, I dropped a note and a $20 tip on Greg's board, thanking him -- telling him how much we appreciated his efforts to help us enjoy the show, signing it "The Back Row."  I would like to think that the note (and the fact that I took time to write it) meant a lot more than the $20.

The next time you have an amazing experience, go out of your way to thank the Joeys and the Gregs -- the people behind the scenes who really make it happen.  They have an incredible amount of pride in their craft, their work, their art -- and people simply don't notice (or say Thank You) to them often enough.

*(And while we're at it with the Thank Yous, let's be sure to thank those serving in the Military that we pass as we travel through airports.  Don't worry that you don't know what to say, it's enough to say Thanks for Serving, and mean it.)

Gratitude:  Pass it on.

Basta cosi? (Is it enough, like this?) - Part I

    One of my very favorite words in Italian has always been "basta" - perhaps because it was one of the first that I learned and could easily apply; the translation being approximately "enough."  A multifaceted word, it would be said when someone is ladling pasta onto your plate (basta!), wine into your glass (basta!), putting your hand up and sternly telling the gypsies to stop bothering you (basta!),  silencing arguing children (basta!), when you are fatigued and can't do any more yardwork for the day (basta... ), when you are giving up on something (basta, non posso fare piu...)

I've been wrestling lately with the concept of 'enough'.   It's an amazingly pliable word in English, too --

How much "stuff" is enough (to keep up with those damn Joneses?)
How much misbehavior from the kids will you tolerate before you hit your wall and put on your Mom voice, " I said, ENOUGH!"
How much of your plate do you feel that you have to clear before you say that you're full enough?
How much pushing around will you take before you say, "okay, I've had enough!"
How much faith can you put into something, unrequited, before you quietly whisper, "enough" and walk away with your head still held high? 
How much possibility do you have to see, glowing electrically green on the other side of the fence, before you say, "that's enough to make me walk over and check it out?" 

When I picked up and moved from Washington to Italy, that's what happened -- I had put a lot of faith into living the "DC life" but it hadn't rewarded me with a sense of peace or fulfillment.   I saw a fence (or rather, an ocean) and thought ... well, that grass over there looks awfully darn green.  And if it's not greener than here, then maybe at least I'll FEEL greener over there.*

From my limited experience, I can assure you, if you are peeking over that fence at other grass:  it is rarely, rarely, rarely truly "greener."  It's almost always just different.  But sometimes it's okay to acknowledge that different may be just what you need.  

It's hard to say "Enough" and walk away, but sometimes you have to be brutally honest about the other cooks in the kitchen.  And if you start looking around and find all the other cooks lacking severely, maybe the common denominator is really YOU:  maybe you're the one who isn't the right fit anymore.  Maybe you're ready for something different -- not better, not easier -- just:  different. 

When is enough, enough?

(*Postscript:  the grass in Italy WAS actually, physically greener.  And it took a heck of a lot more energy to mow.  Be careful what you wish for...)

Awwwwwwww: I'm a Winner! (... and you can be too!)

If the way to a man's heart is through his (ahem) Stomach, then I've just discovered that the way to my fingers is through my heart.  

I just had a MAJOR AWARD bestowed upon me.  An INTERNATIONAL award, no less -- bestowed by a Swedish blogger named Annika.   (The Honest Scrap Award!)

Annika loves Italy with a passion and zest so deep that it is, in fact, otherworldly.  She feels magnetically drawn there, far away from her small Swedish village.   She taught herself near-perfect Italian without ever having set foot on the soil there (to which I bow deeply in amazement).   In writing she is bold and provocative and dreamy.  In person she is wide-eyed and bitesized and reverent, with a tenacious charm that you only find after she creeps a few steps, tentatively, out of her shell.

She was one of my most devoted loyal readers, back in the early days of "If Not Now, When" - the Italian adventure (http://tuttivabene.blogspot.com).   I got the sense that she lived vicariously through my (mis)adventures, I'm sure, dreaming of what her own life might have looked like if she had the opportunity that I had - to just pick up and move to Italy with no (okay, a few) strings attached.   It was (and is) people like her - the dreamers - that gave me the conviction to push forward when I felt daunted... I was carrying forward the mantle of other people's desires in addition to my own.  Oddly, I'm not sure I was ever really a dreamer,  I am rather a goer-doer:   one who does not wonder why nor yearn for what is not here, but rather walks boldly (and occasionally haphazardly!) through the doors of opportunity that present themselves, determined to make the most of whatever lies beyond.  I often feel like the bull in the china shop of life, stumbling around and having a grand time, frayed edges and all -- where others are more reflective and spiritual; well-woven, elegant fabrics.

People like the lovely LB, worldly and glamorous in so many ways beyond me, but for the moment rooted to the ground in Texas as a wife and mother and grandmother and caregiver and ranch-tender, unable to jump on planes at a moment's notice ... so for now she is an armchair adventurer, reading and traveling through the words of others.   When I saw her at lunch recently I promised myself I would write again more frequently - because it is my blessing and gift to be able to go and see and experience things, and I should take more seriously the opportunity to share those experiences.  

So.  Hmmmm.   Annika's "Honest Scrap" award  says: 
"The award is given by other bloggers who consider a blog’s content or design to be brilliant. The awardee must then post ten honest things about themselves and pass the award on to other bloggers who fit the bill – in other words, whose blog is brilliant."

(Well, crikey.  With the hundreds of blogs she reads, I'm quite flabbergasted to have been selected!)  So as to accept appropriately Annika's compliment and make good on my commitment to LB to keep writing, here's a totally stream-of-consciousness 10 honest things about me...

1)   I believe that I yearn to be reincarnated as an elegant South African woman 'of a certain age,'  wearing bright red colored high heel espadrille sandals, a widebrimmed woven straw hat and white slacks, tromping unpretentiously through my "Works Project" - a complete structural renovation of a fantastic plantation-style home in the Chianti hills with a panoramic view of Buonconvento and the surrounding countryside.   

2)  That woman was one of the fantastic serendipities of my recent trip back to Italy - quite simply charming and worldly and interesting and yet somehow not the least bit pretentious.   I am enamored of her, and my bull-in-the-china-shop self was flattered and humbled to have been invited to spend time with her. 

3) We were able to spend time with her because we had an only loosely planned agenda, that then had things fall through, and so we were able to "SAY YES" to opportunities as they arose, unfettered by Other Obligations.  ("Why, I should be delighted to ... " )  While I dearly love a plan (and my job indeed is built around making plans), I even more dearly love the delirious, drunken rush of flying by the seat of my pants and the freedom to just go and do and "say yes" when opportunities and serendipity present themselves.   Nearly ALL the most memorable moments in my life - big and small! - were not originally on the agenda.

4) The majority of my dearest friends and confidantes have never been my age;  I'm not sure what that says about me (or them!) 

5)   My mother always said when I was a child that I was far older than my years, I'm pretty sure I'm regressing, and fast.

6)  I love being the person willing to put myself out there and say what other people don't dare to.

7)  I think that comes from a healthy sense of not really caring what other people think.

8)  ... unless you're one of the veeeery small inner circle...   in which case, I do care.  A Lot.  Even when you don't think I do, which may be most of the time.

9)   I'm pretty sure I believe in past lives and fibers that connect people's souls through those lives.  Because I don't have any evidence to the contrary, I suppose, and there are some people you just get a 'feeling' about.  (Then again, maybe that's just indigestion.)

10)  Speaking of indigestion, I have officially had my second completely inedibly TERRIBLE meal in Italy (the first being many years ago with N.Terza) ...  a gnocchetti con asparagi e gamberi (little gnocchi with asparagus and shrimp) which was supposedly one of the "fresh plates" of the day.  Perhaps "Del Giorno" translated to: positively throat-closingly awful.   In the US I probably would have sent it back - but I try mightily not to make a scene in a language that I can't TRULY throw-down in (should the need arise).  And with an ample booty like mine, I also try to avoid putting things on my lips that I'm not positively thrilled with, so I just shrugged and pushed the plate away deciding if I was still hungry I'd order something else later, hence coining one of the famous phrases of the trip, "I have more Euros than Space".  

... so that's that, 10 honest, if totally random, things about me.  I'm an honest scrapper:  Thanks, Annika, for the compliment and for getting the creative juices flowing.    I'd like to think that this has re-started the flow for a while, but I've also learned not to make plans in advance ...  so we'll just have to see what comes. 

Per ora,  - V.

PS:  Oh, right.  I'm supposed to 'tag' others.  Oh, geez.   I hate putting pressure on you, and I confess that the only blogs I still read with any regularity at all are Tania @ EuroBimbo, LookyDaddy!, Elle @ Domestic Oblivion, and Patti @ 37Days (who are all brilliant in their own ways -- Tania's brilliant eye for photography, Daddy's alternately snarky observational humor and heartstring-yanking insights on raising his three girls, Elle's scathing wit about the insanity of the familial vortex in Suburbia, and Patti's ability to reach deeply and say what we all wish we were smart enough to be thinking).   Oh, and Seth Godin, of course -- whose daily thoughts inform many of my business decisions and who I believe truly is the rare-commodity of brilliant in the savvy, business, no-bullshit, no-excuses, take-no-prisoners, point-out-the-obvious, and expect people to DO THE RIGHT THING kind of way, but I'm sure (hoping) he has better things to do than be flattered by me. 

Come to think of it, we're all brilliant honest scraps in our own sorts of ways, I think.  That's the beauty of the human condition -- we all have something brilliant and shiny and magical about us.  Maybe you're a reader and not a blogger -- but you've been somehow motivated by this idea of sharing some scrap of yourself with the world. In which case, drop me an email with your 10 things and I'll post them for you.

Question of the day: have you ever?

... had one of those moments... 

where an Opportunity climbs right up into your lap, completely uninvited, and begs for attention (which you don't really have to give it).

"Look at me!"  it says energetically, zestfully. 
"Aren't I beautiful?   Aren't I full of amazing, game-changing, life-changing potential?   Wouldn't you love to dig in and have a piece of me??"

You react by instinct, 'this is probably too good to be true,' and brush Opportunity away at first.

But it is tenacious, this Opportunity.

It beckons you to think about all the crazy circumstances that had to align just-so for it to find its way to your lap, and you say to yourself,  "self, this is worth another thought.  There are no coincidences."

And so you think.

In fact, you're haunted by the thinking.

You do the laundry, work, go to the grocery store, schedule a dentist appointment, check in with friends...   and still it twiddles around in the back of your brain, becoming a constant soundtrack.

And Opportunity starts to wriggle around on your lap, getting restless.

What if?   What if, as is statistically likely, it really IS too good to be true?

And well, what if it's not?  What if it is everything it claims to be, and then some? 

There's a big ole' door labeled WELCOME! open on the ground floor, you don't even have to climb stairs to get there.  Could you live with yourself if you were too busy to walk in and look around a while?  

If you go in and it's a big ole' waste of energy ...

If you walk by and it turns out to be a magnificent amazing thing...

Can you live with yourself either way?  Which is easier? 

If not now, when?

Bloom where you're planted... an allegorical tale

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”     ~Anais Nin

She was a young unformed stick of a plant, with potential that could be only imagined through the image on her tag.  Someone who cared enough to give her a chance, a true gardener who believed in risk-taking and nurturing, picked her out anyway and placed her in just the right spot - with enough sunshine, mild winters, protection her from the harsh winds.  During the early years, attention was lavished -- water, fertilizers, hand-training of her wild and unruly tendrils. 

Over the years, the gardener came less frequently, but he had done his job well and had set her on the right path for growth.  She took off, following her well-trained instincts and the paths of least resistance, building new growth upon old to reach previously unimagined heights.  In her prime, she was heady and intoxicating -- intertwined in all she touched, hanging heavy with blossoms.  In the dormant months, which always came, she smartly stored energy for the next growth spurt, where again she would blossom and dazzle.   She was not a part of the foundation of the house itself, but to so many who viewed it, they could not imagine the house without its wisteria.

Those who were there then would recall the grand parties that were held, connections made, lives lived, photos taken, picnics on the lawn, all with the elegant house as the raison d'etre and its' lovely accessory the wisteria as the backdrop. They were truly marvelous together; it was the best of times. 

But time marches on.  The house, sadly, was no longer the showpiece it once was.  Age had taken its toll.  The neighborhood had changed in many ways beyond the once-stately house's control. Other flashier houses had been built in trendier neighborhoods.  It was still occupied, but by a family who no longer had the vibrance, harmony, passion of the one that had once lived there.  Visitors are less frequent.  As people lost energy, rooms and wings were closed off and renovations were left neglected.   The house and family, once a vital, growing thing -- had gone into decline.  

The estate caretaker, a brilliant and nurturing wizard of a gardener who had planted the wisteria many years ago, is still around -- but doesn't have the energy to manage the estate the way he used to, nor does he have the vast resources of assistance at his disposal that he did in the heyday.  He has only his passion, but that too has been jaded by years of storm damage and discord in the family pulling him in too many directions.   He puts conscious, focused effort into the repairs, but there is only so much within his influence: the house is eroding faster than his capacities to fix.  And yet, he works conscientiously:  repairing the faucet and trying his best not to be daunted when two more leaks spring further down the line.  

The lovely wisteria, too, seems to have stopped growing.  It is spring, and she is flowering because it is the season to do so (seemingly on an unseen command), but even she senses that she has slightly less vigor each year.   She has a front row seat to the decline of the house and it pains her as yet another window goes dark, the roof springs another leak, and necessary repairs go neglected.  She cannot herself repair them, and the house's decline seems to osmotically affect her, too:  empty, craggy vines sit in low spots that were once filled with blooms.

She clings to the house because it is a part of her now:  to the view of any observer, she is one of the most notable parts of it.   Her very nature,  that thing what makes her so striking and unique in her kingdom (an intertwining vine weaving itself inextricably to the structure upon which it lives) will also be her curse:  she cannot be able to be separated from the crumbling edifice without significant damage to both.

If she could, would she transplant herself?

The house itself would certainly survive without her.  Would it even notice if she was gone?  Perhaps not.   Perhaps she has been the very reason that necessary repairs were never undertaken, her existence masked the true magnitude of the need.   Perhaps with a stark empty wall, a revitalization effort that will unify the family to action will spring forth.  And then again, perhaps the legacy of the old family estate is no longer important to the vast majority of the extended family ... their money and energy already redirected far too long into other projects.   Driving through a countryside littered with abandoned buildings, it's hard to be optimistic.

Mature Wisteria, you may know, do not transplant well.   If they are to survive, it takes a mammoth hacking-back and they are likely to suffer serious shock. If she could be transplanted and survive and bloom and grow again, would she be just as elegant and striking climbing up a different structure?  Or is she too antiquated for today's modern architecture?

And the time may have come ... where the risk to remain intertwined with the crumbling edifice is far more painful than the risk it takes to be transplanted.

She bloomed where she was planted once.  Can she select the right location and bloom where she is transplanted?  Only the passage of the seasons will tell.

Giving in

Fair Warning:  Facebook is a vicious addictive bitch of a mistress, adept at making you feel like a ginormous loser.  She also reminds you that there are plenty of people who you went to high school with who you have no need to ever see or hear from again.

One thing working in Facebook's favor and currently keeping her in my good graces:  unlike her internet networking ugly stepsister site Plaxo, she has not yet asked me (cheerily! repeatedly!) if I'd like to "Connect With" my Ex-Husbands New Wife.   (Apparently, because we have the same last name, Plaxo thinks we may Want to Know Each Other.  Which I'm pretty sure we do not, regardless of how fascinating swapping stories might be.)

(Aside, unsolicited advice to Social Networking Sites:   Offer a "stop offering me this person as a potential connection" option.  Please.)  

That being said, I was convinced that I simply HAD to have a Facebook account.  I was conned into this by two local real-life friends here in Minnesota (though not "Minnesotans") who indicated that they simply couldn't organize an event with me without the use of aforementioned social networking tool.   As a person who has organized literally hundreds of events -- before even the internet existed -- I was skeptical, but I aquiesced and got on board.

And so there I am, on Facebook.  And I went from those initial two friends to a whopping EIGHT, and I'm already feeling that it's a bit hard to breathe - though I admit I do like the option to keep up with what people are doing in their daily lives without having to talk on the phone.  Because I loathe the phone.   Though I see folks with 160 or 220 "friends" and I think to myself ... REALLY?    (Gee, I wish there was an "acquaintance" setting ....) 

I'm sure that I won't stop at eight, but I AM trying to be disciplined - only adding real life people whom, if we were closer or less busy or something, I'd love to cocktail with on a regular basis.  But we'll see how that goes.

So apparently (in case you too have been living under a rock), the latest rage on Facebook is the idea of listing "Twenty Five Random Things About You".   Of course, that's basically the short form of what this blog is / has always been for me ...  random  mumblings about me and life and such for the four of you who are still out there reading. 

But I hate to be left out of a trend (hah), and so -- inspired by Elle at Domestic Oblivion, and in an ode to Valentines Day,  I'm doing a modified version of the Twenty Five Random Things...     you all already know me, pretty much, so you get 25 things about The Man of Many Nicknames (MMN):

1. He is fiercely loyal to his employer and cares very deeply about being good at his job.
2. He has an exceptional sense of urgency, which makes him great at customer service
3. Not much drives him (or me) more crazy than someone WITHOUT a well-honed sense of urgency.
4. He's a beer guy.  I'm not sure he had ever had more than one glass of red wine under duress before he met me, and I joked with him once that if I had to be a "wine by the glass" girl for the rest of my life it might be a deal killer. 
5. In what is absolutely the worlds most romantic gesture, he traveled to Italy in Jan 2007 wearing nothing but the clothes on his back (and the ipod in his pocket) to pick me up and bring me 'home'.
6. He makes me a better person.
7. He has a gargantuan mancrush on Brett Favre.
8. I have never seen him in a suit.  No kidding. (This attributed directly to the fact that he does not OWN a suit.)
9. He has recently earned the nickname "Laundry Czar" of our house. 
10. He wears glasses because he can't stomach the thought of anything in his eyes.
11. He talks to me when I sleep and I talk back without being awake, and then he delights in recounting all the crazy things I said.
12. He takes the worlds longest showers.
13. He has had the same haircut since approximately 1978.
14. He actively wonders when his hairline will recede enough that he has to break down and get the "Matt Lauer" haircut.  (Close but not quite yet).
15. He is six years and at least 2 generations older than me.  
16. One of his most prized possessions is a tiny brown pill bottle that was his grandfather's.
17. He can pick out the best versions EVER of songs.
18. If you were at a restaurant with him tonight, there's a 92% chance he'll order the fish & chips.
19. He could walk up to 25 miles a day going nowhere if left to his own devices.
20. He'd love to walk the Appalachian trail someday, but for the moment that would mean taking off work, which he hates to do.
21. He knows the fastest way to melt me into a puddle is to call me "pumpkin."  Accordingly, he uses it veeerry sparingly.
22. One of my favorite things to do is watch him splitting firewood, which he is quite adept at. 
23. In college, he loved watching Murder She Wrote on Sundays. (see # 15, above).
24. His favorite holiday is Casimir Pulaski Day. 
25. He made me fall in love with him when he - against all odds, better judgment, and his own prediction - wrote me back, three years ago this month.

BONUS twenty sixth thing:  he's freakishly awesome. 

(Happy UnAnniversary, MMN.   I love being 'jointly in debt' with you.  Maybe someday you can be my Friend on Facebook.)   -- V.

welcome to my black hole.

I should put a personal ad on CraigsList or something:

Thirty-something (ahem:welcome to 'mid-life!') woman in generally good health and good spirits, satisfied with all the doors life has opened thus far, gainfully employed and desperately seeking the 'middle ground' between overworked and lazy, between ecstatic and sunken in depression, between hyper-energetic and exhausted, between loud and whispery, between stressed out and bored silly.  

...  maybe I'm crazy.  But it seems that in the past month I have been either INSANELY busy, or just can't get myself motivated to do anything at all.  12-14 hour days of non stop forget-to-pee productivity, or ... nothing.   After being away for a week for our annual meeting, then down for the count for nearly a week with the creeping ick (both as patient and nurse, as MMN caught it too), I now can't seem to get up my gumption sufficient to do anything besides laze around and check my email and dream about next week's vacation.   It's like some giant beast snuck in in the middle of the night and sucked away  all my desire to DO, BE, ACCOMPLISH anything.

What's UP with that?!?!? 

I have one and a half full time jobs, all of which are languishing in the shadows of my unmotivated winter blahs.   I had made an impressive amount of progress on the 'lose weight' new year's resolution (okay, well, 5 lbs ... but SOMETHING), and now I have been 3 weeks without setting foot in the gym.  95 % of the time, I'm a great doer, self-motivator.   The other 5% is a deadly black hole.

I suppose I should adopt the "fake it til you make it" mantra on this one and just force myself to GET UP AND DO SOMETHING.   A shower and some clean sheets would be a lovely start.

Talking to Sis on the phone today, I heard my Worlds Cutest Niece playing in the water, wanting to color, needing to be redirected, starting to cry ...   This is one of those moments where I envy those of you with tiny children -- little beings who depend on you, push you, motivate you -- because there's simply no option other than to attend to them, regardless of how lazy, sick, tired, unmotivated you feel.   Absent a tiny motivator tugging at my legs (kid? dog? fish?), it's all too easy to wonder where full days at a time go.   (Thank heavens I'm not an online gamer - THAT would be a far too tempting obsession). 

I'm sure there are tons of you reading right now who are debating the "loan Viaggiatore a kid to deal with for a week" vacation program... to get me off my aspirations and give you a much-needed break...   

On that note, I think I've pulled myself together and am headed up and about.   Fear (of all of your children descending upon me simultaneously) is a powerful motivator! 

"Grace In Small Things"

At a very quick glance:   Another blogger I read on occasion, (when I am doing such things like READING), seems to have created some sort of a social-networking site of sorts, devoted to: GRACE IN SMALL THINGS.   I haven't yet spent an ounce of energy looking into it, but as I was going to close down my computer tonight it struck me and I started typing: 

Her words:   "Grace in Small Things exists because the world we live in is loud and harsh and bright and demanding, and it is easy to slide into a less than thoughtful survival mode in which we do what we have to do to make it through the day with the least amount of strife possible. We allow it to rob us of the time and energy to be mindful of ourselves and those we love and to recognize the grace that exists in small things."

So true.

I am CLEARLY not up to her challenge of posting "5 things that have graced my life" every day.  Because, hell, who am I kidding, I'm barely posting 5 times a YEAR right now...

but at a visceral, cellular level, I immediately like her verve, her vibe, her ... point.   Aren't there a hundred things that cross our paths each day that we should stop and be appreciative of?  Shouldn't we choose to see the grace ... the gift ... the goodness ... rather than letting one or two minor irritations rub against each other, melding into a cacophony of discontent that crescendos into a symphony of angst and frustration?  

Upon reflection, it seems I spent too much of 2008 stuck in an ugly symphony of minor irritation. So, it seemed, did much of the world.  Maybe you suffered, too.

Choose to see the grace in small things.  That's something I can do, right?

So here goes.   Today, there is grace in the fact that total strangers -- many, but two precisely -- answered my call when I flung a request out into the world for help with an event this coming weekend.

They are a woman who is on occasion an amateur balloon twisty artist, who I have never met but saw once when she was waitressing at our local pizza joint ...  and a man who I met, quite by accident, when he sat on the same couch next to MMN at a New Year's Day Party ... 

Both volunteered, with just the briefest of conversations and no compensation, to donate their artistry and a keg of beer, to the cause of a local food shelf and local business "winter carnival" that I'm helping organize on very short notice and less of a budget this coming weekend.

Neither were people I knew before ... um ... 2009.   It's amazing what deliciousness the recipe of an open spirit, the willingness to ask, and the willingness to say "yes" can create among strangers. 

Maybe we're all just overcome with the spirit of an historic Inauguration Day, that there's a powerful unseen force in the universe allowing us all to find the hope in a new beginning.  ("Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and a Black President, and Maybe, Just Maybe, Change really HAS come..." ... reference the unspoken footnote on us all having to work and sacrifice for that change, please**)  Ahem.

Find the Grace in Small things.  Find something you can say YES to tomorrow, even if you aren't asked. 

Give something to someone who needs it.
Ask for something you need.
Be thankful.  It's a nice feeling.

a working definition of severe depression:

The sinking feeling that descended upon me at recognition of the harsh realization that it would take an increase of a FULL FIFTY degrees to get us above what is technically "freezing".

WHO LIVES HERE???? 

No Woman No Cry (you'll freeze your tears)

Well, fudgesicles and fishsticks, it's cold out there. 

Minus twenty one degrees, to be precise, with a wind chill approaching minus forty.  Which is a ridiculous measurement that only matters if you're standing out in the wind, and who in the hell is that stupid?  

Certainly not me - my car was reluctant to start yesterday, I imagine she'd be throwing the vehicle equivalent of a hissy fit today if I even tried.

If I've learned anything in my thirtysomething years on this planet, it's that when either Money or Temperature need to be measured with a negative sign, it's BAAAAAAD.

Of course, it doesn't help that I woke up feeling like there was a golf ball lodged in the left side of my throat and apparently in the midst of a hallucinatory dream, muttering to the Man that "I'm a fish with a pet fish in my pocket"    (I believed that as clear as day, by the way, sufficiently to answer questions when prodded... HIM:  "if you're a fish, how do you have a pocket?"  ME:  "well, I'm wearing a fish dress tied at my neck" (DUH.))

Maybe it's because I'm an Aquarius -- when I hallucinate, it's almost always fish-related:  my mother distinctly remembers a terrible night during my teenage years when I was fearfully, terribly sick and I ran screaming down the hall, a giant silverfish in pursuit. 

But I digress.   Wandering downstairs to get a cup of coffee, I stood in a daze at the back picture window, squinting into the brightness of the snowcovered yard, and fought a crazy instinct to open the door and scoop up the squirrel sitting on the feeder, his teeth chattering in the brutal cold.  When you debate risking rabies to rescue wildlife from the elements, you know it's truly desperate.

It's been below zero for more than 60 straight hours, the coldest in four years, according to the weather-fascinated local news (the Weather Report takes up fully 20 minutes of a 30 minute newscast these days). 

I'm convinced that there are simply people Heartier than Me out there.  Like my mailman and the guy who works the recycling truck. (Though I was SERIOUSLY TEMPTED to hang an offering of a set of chemical handwarmers out for the Mailman today.)  The thick Nordic blood up here must be a legitimate genetic trait. 

A friend of mine remains convinced that there isn't bad weather, just bad clothing.  Bullshit: This is bad weather (and yes, I'm fully aware that the weather does not care what my opinion of it is).  I wish I could be so optimistic and chirpy, but this weather frankly SUCKS THE LIFE OUT OF ME.   I'm trying to direct my energies to reviewing worthy applicants for a scholarship program and organizing an event that will raise funds for a local food shelf, but the desire to curl up in a corner under a fur throw and suck down copious quantities of scotch is a magnetic pull. 

The Mom is sailing on a catamaran in the Virgin Islands right now and there isn't much I wouldn't do to be able to teleport myself there.  Because leaving the house to go to the airport is not an option.

I'm pretty sure that The Man of Many Nicknames is worried about me.  He's emotionally prepared to come home and find me hopped up on daquiris, blasting reggae music and dancing around in a bikini with the heat set at 85.   Which, I do not need to tell you, would NOT be a pretty picture.

If you live East of here, this is headed your way.  Stock up on rum, cocoa butter, and Bob Marley albums and don't say I didn't warn you.